The lure

Contents

CHAPTER PACE

1 7

II 16

Chapter I

THERE was something- unusual about her eyes. MacAuley realized that the first time that he ever met her; and yet to save his life he never could explain their particular peculiarity to himself. They were the eyes of a very pretty girl, for Sylvia was an exceedingly pretty girl. As pretty as any in all the rank and file of the big department store.

Long before he even came to know that her name was Sylvia — and that didn't happen until she had been enshrined in his heart for several months, those eyes of hers and the potency of them worried him night and day. This was proved that first day of all when he saw her at the silk stocking counter. It was immediately after that chance glimpse of her

that Bob MacAuley committed an idiosyncrasy which continued to amaze him all the rest of his life. Why he did it he never knew. And what he did was this : after catching his one fleeting glimpse of Sylvia he walked deliberately out of the shop and across the street to a jeweler's shop. There were a number of silver photograph frames in the window. He looked them over carefully. All of them, save one, contained photographs of actresses. This single empty frame caught his eye and allured him very much as Sylvia's deep eyes had done a few moments before.

He went into the shop and asked to be shown the frame. They brought it to him. "How much is it?" he asked the salesman. "Forty-six dollars," was the answer. "Wrap it up," said MacAuley, as he dug down into his clothes. He carried the picture frame home with him and placed it on the mantelpiece in the "den" of his Harlem bachelor apartment. Then leaning his arm on the mantelpiece he apostrophized it as though it were an old friend. Of course, MacAuley could never have done this if he had possessed a sense of humor, but humor was one of the things in which he was inordinately lacking, and then he said: "I wonder which of us looks the bigger fool — me looking into your empty face or you looking blankly at me with nothing but the filigree work on the edge of you to make an impression ? But we might as well get acquainted here and now, because we have got to see this thing through together. It may take a long time, so we may just as well get acquainted with each other. There is never going to be any picture in you but one, and that's the face of the girl at the silk-stocking counter.

"Damn it !" he exclaimed abruptly, hitting his fist on the edge of the mantelpiece, "you might as well know the whole truth at once. I am going to marry that girl. I don't even know her name, but she has got to marry me just the same, and you have got to stand there empty and vacant until I have won her. It may take years, but some day she'll be in that frame.

And, so saying, MacAuley turned from the photograph frame and, feeling distinctly ashamed of his sentimental soliloquy, promptly went to bed.

But not to sleep, for that night, and for many another, he was haunted by Sylvia's eyes. At times he felt like kicking himself. The experience was new for a detective, high in the good graces of the Department of Justice, whose work in the course of a single year had thrown him in contact with a more motley and varied assortment of women than were encountered by the average man in the course of a lifetime, and yet, what was the use, here he was, madly in love with a girl whom he had seen only once, and whose name he didn't even know. It wasn't a case of looking forward to some mild flirtation with her when he met her. From that first moment he had known one thing absolutely. That was, that this girl was to be his wife. "I have known all sorts of women," he said to himself one night as he lay in bed, "and I am about as good a judge of feminine character as most men, but if ever I saw purity and sweetness and tenderness symbolized in a woman's eyes — by Jove! If I had seen that woman for the first time in a jail or in a common dance hall I would have staked my life that she was good and pure. Why, mother's going to love that girl," and he biffed the pillow as though it had presumed to contradict him. "I can just see the two of them together. What pals they'll make, and then, later on, if the kiddies came — oh, gee whiz ! it's too good to think about." So he turned over and went to sleep, but in the morning, with his first waking thoughts, the girl at the silk-stocking counter and his mother were still linked in his mind. "That's a bully idea," he said as he jumped into his bath. "I'm glad I thought of that. Mother loves silk stockings, and I haven't sent her any for at least a year."

Eleven o'clock found him at the store again, and three days later his mother in a small up-state town was amazed to receive, without any explanation, a dozen pairs of black silk hose. Sylvia had picked them out for her herself, but, unfortunately for Bob, their acquaintance had not taken the least step forward. She had treated him exactly like any other customer, but deep down in his heart Bob knew that he had made a very good impression. After that, at short intervals, MacAuley recalled various aunts of his whom he hadn't even thought of in years. Now he suddenly recollected that they doted on silk stockings, too; so each of them in due course was amazed and delighted to receive an unexpected Christmas gift from their nephew Bob in the middle of summer. The short note of explanation which accompanied each of these gifts really conveyed nothing to these ancient ladies beyond the fact that Bob always was a dear soul, and to be able to dispense such charming luxuries he must certainly be doing well. But still the acquaintance went no further. Sylvia always smiled at him demurely, modestly, just as she did on all her other regular customers. Once he even spoke about the weather, but she instantly became so monosyllabic that he felt distinctly thwarted. Finally he turned his attention to Emma, the little hunchback who presided at the glove counter just across the aisle. Emma was an institution at the store. Moreover, she was a conversationalist. She and Bob soon became great friends. It was through Emma that he learned eventually that his idol's first name was Sylvia, and that the remainder of her cognomen was Jones. This was merely a particle of the great fund of information about Sylvia which Emma poured voluntarily into his willing ears. For one thing Emma assured him that Sylvia was her very dearest friend, and when Emma said that it meant something, because the cheery hearted little soul, by her bright face and chirpy little manner, had won the affection of, and was really on more than speaking terms with every woman in the city who was really worth knowing, from the newest Mrs. Vanderbilt to Anna Held and Gaby Deslys. Multimillionairesses took Emma to drive in their motor cars, and one very famous actress always wafted her away to her country place for a two weeks' rest in the summer time. Consequently, when Emma assured MacAuley that Sylvia was the dearest girl she knew it really did mean something. Bob realized this and listened to her with profound attention while she talked to him of Sylvia. She was very, very poor — Sylvia was, according to Emma, and her mother was a great invalid, that was why Sylvia never went anywhere; why she never had a good time and never even used the free theater tickets which were distributed so lavishly throughout the store when any of the Broadway managers were in need of audiences. Sylvia never went anywhere, and Emma thought that it really was too bad.

And then there came a day — a day that MacAuley will never forget — the day that he caught his last glimpse of her. He had entered the store, intending to buy some more silk stockings, but seeing that Sylvia was busily engrossed with a lady customer he turned away and chatted with Emma. Afterward the picture of the woman whom Sylvia was serving stood out strongly in his mind. For some reason he detested her, he loathed her. She was a woman, forty perhaps, very plainly dressed in a severe but well-cut walking suit, and as he last saw her she was leaning across the counter smiling into Sylvia's face and handing her a visiting card. Mac-

Auley turned and left the store. But somehow after that, whenever he thought of Sylvia, the vision of this woman seemed to rise between them menacingly like a wraith. The next time that he dropped in at the store there was another girl in Sylvia's place at the silk stocking counter, and when Mac- Auley turned to Emma for information, for once, in a way, the little hunchback was uncommunicative, almost silent. All that she would say was that Miss Jones had left. She did not know where she had gone to — but that one fact was enough for Bob. Sylvia had gone.

Chapter II

"Tell me the truth, doctor, I want to know — I must know for Sylvia's sake as well as my own. You must tell me the truth now." The sweet face of the middle-aged woman, framed in its prematurely gray hair, looked pleadingly into Dr. Goldberg's face. "Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor evasively, as, with his hands clasped behind his back, he walked up and down the tenement house sitting room. The room itself fairly shrieked of better days. The stamp of bitter poverty lay over it all like a pall. The one spot of color left in the room was a little stand filled with pots of geraniums in full bloom which stood on the sill of the fire escape. There had been pictures on the wall once, you could see that by the marks upon the wall paper, but they, like the old family sofa, the Davenport, even the writing desk, had long since gone to the pawnshop,

and the doctor himself, save for his cheery disposition, was of a pattern with the room. He was white-haired, a Hebrew and sixty. His clothes, though neat, were shabby and worn, but the twinkle in his eye and the smile which his face wore almost invariably made you forget all about his clothes. Just at the moment, however, the doctor was far from smiling. His heart was wrung with pity for the gentle little woman who was trying so hard to pin him down to the brutal facts.

"Yes, yes, of course," he repeated again, and then, leaving his sentence unfinished, he walked to the window and gazed down into the courtyard, where hordes of foreign-looking children were shrieking at their play.

"Please, now, doctor, I am quite prepared for the worst. I am not afraid."

The doctor turned from the window and looked at Mrs. Jones with kindly, wistful eyes. "Although the world is full of liars, there are but few of us who do not prefer to listen to the truth. Dot's so, ain't it, Mrs. Jones, yes?"

"But you promised to tell me the truth to-day."

"I tell it every day, my dear; that is, I try to. Of course, occasionally a man's tongue will slip shust like his foot, or his grip on the temperance pledge."

"Ah, but, doctor," interrupted the woman.

"Slipping too often is very bad for everybody," continued the doctor. "Now, I used to know a man about twenty years ago who couldn't even tell the truth without lying. He was the worst "

Mrs. Jones raised her hands deprecatingly.

"I know you don't want to tell me, but I want to know, and I am prepared to know the worst." She paused for a moment. The doctor leaned down and taking her thin, little hand in both of his, patted it softly. "Yes, my dear," he said, "I guess you ought to know."

He paused for a moment and turned his head away from the woman's steadfast gaze. "Von of the most difficult t'ings a doctor has to do is to decide just when it's fair — and safe to tell a patient the absolute truth."

"I know that, doctor; please go on."

"Under proper conditions you still got a fighting chance, Mrs. Jones; not an even chance, mind you — shust an odd chance. But a good fighter vill always give odds."

"Yes, yes, that's true," said the woman calmly. "I've had the odds against me nearly all my life, doctor, you know that. This room proclaims it, doesn't it," she exclaimed with a wan smile.

"Now, the operation itself is not dangerous. Ve get it done at the hospital. You vill get along very well in the hospital, I have no doubt, vile you are there. But to bring you back here to convalesce — here, here — to be stifled by dis foul air and shut in by dese vails, vare de sunshine can't ever find you, and vare God Himself can only do it by looking

cross vays down an air shaft " The doctor

paused again and shook his head.

"No, no," he exclaimed ; "the odds are too great. You vould die in a veek, Mrs. Jones."

Neither spoke for a moment after that, then the woman looked up smilingly and said :

"I'm willing to risk it, doctor." For the first time the doctor frowned. "But I'm not villing to have you risk it. It vould be suicide."

"But, doctor, you know as well as I do the trip to the country is out of the question."

"Ve vill put it in the question then."

"You know perfectly well we haven't the money."

"It vouldn't cost very much," argued the doctor.

"Very much," echoed the woman. "Why, doctor, anything is more than we have at present; and I can't see any chance of assistance from any quarter except for the money that Sylvia earns at the shop "

"And I haven't got it, either," interrupted the doctor. "And I can't get it no more than you, because you know if I could ve'd be hurrying you away to-morrow."

"God bless you, doctor, I know you would. You've always been too good to Sylvia and me."

"Not as good as I vould have been if I could have been any better. I'm a very poor man myself, but I have this consolation," he went on smilingly, "I am poor by accident, not by design. I t'ink if I had fife dollars all at one time I vouldn't know myself."

The woman gave a little laugh. "Come, come," she said, "you are wandering from the point again. Let's get back to my troubles, doctor."

He drew a chair from the table and sat down beside Mrs. Jones. "Do you know, the only times I vish I vas rich is ven I see a few dollars standing between somebody and good health — possibly between dem and life. It's then I vish I vas a multimillionaire shust for a few days. And, believe me, you wouldn't find me spending my money building art galleries and public libraries, either."

"But you have already given your life to the poor, doctor, surely that's more than money."

"Veil, it vas my own life, vasn't it?" retorted the doctor indignantly. "I could do vat I pleased with it, I guess."

"Of course you could," laughed the woman; "and to other nationalities and religions, you've always been a cosmopolitan in your philanthropies, doctor."

"Veil, vy not, my dear? Don't you know the measles makes a Gentile boy shust as speckled as a

Hebrew? And if the whooping cough don't know no religion, vy should I, shust a mere doctor?"

"But some of them do, all the same. There isn't one doctor in ten thousand who has given his life to the poor as you have done."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"Dat's vid their own conscience. Huh ! as for me, I'm happy, I'm veil, I sleep veil, I eat veil — not so often sometimes perhaps; but den ven I do it's a luxury. And I enjoy a good smoke always. Now, my dear Mrs. Jones, what more is there in life for me?"

While they had been talking the light from the single gas jet had been growing dimmer and dimmer. It was now so near a flicker that Mrs. Jones was obliged to lay down her crochet work. As she did so the doctor turned and glared menacingly at the burner. "Huh ! de gas pressure is mighty veak to-night, it seems to me."

Mrs. Jones looked disconcerted. She gave a nervous little laugh and exclaimed : "To tell you the truth, doctor, I think the meter needs a little more of the money we haven't got."

Instinctively the doctor thrust his hand into his trousers' pocket, but the blank expression which suddenly suffused his face showed that his search had proved futile. "By Gott !" he exclaimed irritatedly, "vot a vorld it is, even der damn machines get hungry for money. Can't I put the quarter in for you?" he asked, turning toward her.

The woman rose with a gesture of apology. "I'm afraid we will have to wait until Sylvia comes, doctor. Even if we have to sit in the dark."

"Oh, no, ve von't have to vait, either," he exclaimed, while his hands made another frantic search of his coat and waistcoat pockets.

In one of these pockets he found a few small coins.

"No, no, doctor, I wouldn't take them for the world," she exclaimed, as she saw his intention; "and, after all, we shan't have to sit in the dark — there's still a little oil in the lamp."

"Nonsense; it's shust a little loan, my dear. You ought to be ashamed to refuse me." ^

She turned to the table and lighted the lamp which immediately flickered almost as weakly as the gas burner had done.

"You really mustn't," said the woman; "you need all your pennies for yourself."

The old man turned toward her with a quizzical smile, the coin still there in his outstretched palm. "You would really rather that I vouldn't?" he asked, as though thinking rather better of the bargain himself.

"Certainly, I would not allow you to."

"Dat's good ; your decision is a great relief to me, Mrs. Jones," he exclaimed with mock dignity, "because now I must tell you I haf only dventy-two cents. I guess I overestimated myself. I t'ought I had dventy-seven. I vender vot happened to that other nickel ? It didn't go for a beer, because I ain't had a beer since last Sunday."

"Never mind, doctor; the lamp will do splendidly."

"Vy do dey charge dventy-five cents for dese meters, anyvay?" exclaimed the doctor angrily. "I don't see vy dey don't make fife-cent meters — they've got penny slot machines."

"They'll probably have to very soon, doctor," smiled the woman; "that is, if they expect to throw any light on us." As she spoke she sat down in the rocking chair again and her face became serious.

Divining her intention, the doctor, in order to put off the evil moment, exclaimed, "I vender vot I did with dot other nickel ; dat's a funny thing about me. I don't mind spending my money, but I like to remember vot I did with it. Now, ven I got up this morning dot nigger vos in my vaistcoat pocket."

"Doctor," said the woman, coming back to bitter facts, "how long can I live without the operation?"

"Not over a month."

"Thank you," said the woman, taking her death warrant with a smile.

There was something of reverence in the old man's face as he looked at her. "Vot a philosopher !" he exclaimed.

She shook her head. "It isn't philosophy," she answered.

"No; vot is it, then?" queried the doctor.

"It's just faith."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "My dear lady," he said, "ven you have lived as long as I have you vill know that faith is the mother of philosophy."

"I don't know about that." There was a little sob in her voice now. "But just for myself I'd welcome the long sleep gladly to-night. I'm so tired of it all. It's been such a long, long, bitter struggle. After my husband deserted us while Sylvia was still a little thing, it wasn't so bad. There was always something to look forward to — the time that she should be grown up, and by that time, of course, I always supposed that things would have taken a turn for the better ; and then, when she did grow up — that was the bitterest cut of all, that she should have to go out and earn her living ; that she should be cut off from all the pleasures and the luxuries and the good times of life which I had known as a young girl ; to have her become what she is — just a drudge, a poor little drudge, working her soul out for six dollars a week. So you can't blame me much, can you, when I say that if it wasn't for Sylvia "

"Ah, but dot's just it," interrupted the doctor. "Sylvia ! You've just got to live for her."

"But you say I can't," expostulated the mother.

"In the country you can live," he rejoined; "live beautifully and happily for many, many years. I'd be villing to bet on dot."

"Ah, but that's hopeless, impossible, out of the question."

"Now, now," he exclaimed soothingly, "don't be so sure about dot. There's always hope. Hope is the best friend any of us ever had, and we all makes a great mistake that we turn our back on her."

"Yes, I agree with you there," said the woman more cheerfully. "Who is it says, 'hope is a hen who lays more eggs than she can hatch' ?"

"Some damn ole fool, my dear; don't you believe in him. He's a liar. And even if it vas true, we'd get an incubator then. Ve'll hatch 'em."

"And then there is another thing, doctor," said the woman drearily. "I am afraid about Sylvia herself. She isn't well."

"Doesn't she sleep well?"

"No, she is up three or four times every night to see if I am comfortable."

"Veil, my dear," and the doctor spoke with greater earnestness than at any time, "if you ever run out of things to thank the Lord for, shust remember to thank him for the privilege of having been Sylvia's mother."

"I do that every day," said the woman fervently.

There was a knock at the door.

"Vait," said the doctor rising, "I vill go see."

On the threshold, as he threw the door open, stood Bob MacAuley.

Chapter III

They had been talking- of hope, and somehow, as the distracted woman turned toward the doorway and looked for the first time at MacAuley's handsome, good-natured, earnest face, she felt that hope blew into the room along with him like a breeze. His was a personality so commanding that to a stranger it inspired one of two things : one either trusted Bob MacAuley or feared him. His strong, dominant nature compelled recognition either one way or the other. He was tall, about thirty-five years of age, well proportioned; his manner was rather lazy, but his eyes were never idle for a moment. Before he had been in the room for half a minute he had taken in every detail of the tragedy of the apartment. At sight of him, for the first time in all that weary day, a look of genuine pleasure crept into Mrs. Jones' face. "Come in, sir," she

said, turning toward him with gentle courtesy.

"What can we do for you ? The doctor and I here have just been talking about hope when your knock came to the door. I hope you are a good omen, sir."

"I hope so, I am sure," said Bob smilingly, as he bowed to her. "I wanted to speak to the lady of this apartment. Are you Mrs. Jones ?"

"The lady herself," said the doctor, introducing her with a sweep of his hand.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" and Mrs. Jones offered him a chair.

"Thank you ; but I will only detain you for a moment," he turned toward the doctor as though to include him in the conversation. "My name is Mac- Auley, Mrs. Jones. I am a Special Agent of the Department of Justice — a Government officer "

"Ah, secret service?" asked the doctor, growing interested at once.

"Yes, secret, as far as possible," smiled Bob; "though, of course, now and then we have to take good citizens like yourself into our confidence, more or less. Here are my credentials, madam."

As he spoke he placed on the table a small morocco card case.

Mrs. Jones glanced at it casually, then turned to introduce the doctor. "This is my old friend, Dr. Goldberg, Mr. - -"

"MacAuley," prompted Bob.

"Glad to meet you, sir," said the doctor, holding out his hand.

"Oh, Dr. Goldberg, eh? You live on the floor below, I believe?"

"Yes, I do; but how did you know that?" queried the doctor.

MacAuley threw back his head and laughed. "That was very easy. I got both your names from the letter carrier. The postman on this route is an intimate friend of mine."

"Ah, I see," and the doctor smiled knowingly.

"We Government officials get a lot of our information from the postmen," continued Bob.

"I don't wonder," said the doctor. "They know everything that is going on in the block, and more, too."

"That's true enough; more than the cabmen and the telephone girls combined."

"I guess that's true, too," laughed the doctor.

MacAuley turned toward Mrs. Jones.

"I've a rather peculiar request to make, madam, and I shall have to rely a little bit on your discretion."

"Ah, we've got plenty of discretion," interrupted the doctor. "That's one of the things you don't have to pay for, and ven you've got it, it don't cost you much."

"Yes, sir; but it's worth a whole lot, all the same," rejoined Bob good humoredly.

"In what way can I serve you, sir?" asked Mrs. Jones.

MacAuley became suddenly serious.

"I believe it is better to be frank, madam. I can explain what I want in a very few words, if you will allow me. I'm engaged on a White Slave case just now. A young girl disappeared from her home in Springfield very mysteriously the other day. Not a word has been heard of her for more than a week.

THE LURE 3S

Her family and friends are distracted, of course, and her father, who is a wealthy banker, is about to offer a big reward for any information with regard to her. So far the police have succeeded for their own purposes in keeping all mention of the case out of the newspapers, but by to-night the country will be ringing with the story.

"This afternoon our department got a tip that the girl has fallen into the hands of the 'White Slavers' and is hidden somewhere in this city."

Mrs. Jones gave a little cry of horror. The doctor turned to MacAuley, all attention now. "Youdon't-say!" he exclaimed in the slow, ponderous tone which he always assumed when particularly interested. "It's on the strength of this clue," continued Bob, "that I've been sent down here. You don't know it, of course, but there's a notorious band of cadets who make their headquarters in the little hotel on the corner of this block — the one over the saloon."

"I know the place," exclaimed the doctor. "It's that damned Callahan's !"

MacAuley resumed his story. "This hotel keeper, Callahan, as you call him, is their friend ; in fact, he is in league with them, and so I can't go in the front door, you see. What I want to do, if you will permit me, is to go through your window, climb the fire escape and go over the roofs. I think by that means I can get into the cadets' rooms and perhaps get some information which will help me to find where they have hidden the girl."

"By all means, sir !" exclaimed the mother, rising to her feet. "And may God help you to find the poor child."

"Thank you, madam," said Bob.

He started for the window, but before his foot was upon the sill a hand organ began to play in the court below. MacAuley started back from the window.

"Oh, dot hand organ again!" cried the doctor pettishly. "It gets my — what is it you call it? Oh, yes, my goat. I don't know vot it means, but I know how it feels. Vy don't the Government — you say you are a Government man, sir — vy don't the Government make an immigration law to keep all the scum of Europe from coming over here and playing hand organs and selling bananas?"

"I am sure I don't know," laughed Bob. "I wish they would."

At that moment there was a sound of a small riot in the court below and the strident voice of an Irishman consigning the organ grinder to the nether regions.